


Angelic Voice

by Pakamausi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 500 Words Challenge, Author is Bad at Titles, Fluff, Gen, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), and is totally accepting alternative title ideas, holyshit I managed to do linked footnotes, it's a minor miracle, that's not counting the footnotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakamausi/pseuds/Pakamausi
Summary: Crowley asks Aziraphale for something. Aziraphale tries to refuse, and even attempts to use his Angelic Voice on Crowley to to get him to drop it. Thing is, Crowley is not human. Crowley is a demon. An Angelic Voice does not affect him like it does a human. So in the end, Crowley gets his way.------500-words of fluff written for a mini-fic challenge.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Angelic Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Vigs, whose [Nice and Accurate Guide to Footnotes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192773) allowed me to create linked footnotes. Can't believe it actually worked.

“Absolutely not.”

“But angel –”

“I said no, Crowley.”

“Just look at –”

“Crowley, look at _me_.” Aziraphale’s voice was calm and quiet, but unyielding. It was the voice he used when dealing with particularly stubborn – or stupid – customers who attempted to persuade, cajole, or even intimidate him into selling them a first-edition Wilde or Bronte. These customers tended to leave the bookshop shortly after, eyes glazed and feet clumsy, and make their way to the café across the street convinced that all they wanted was a strong cup of tea[1], and to try and remember what they were doing in Soho. They certainly weren’t looking to buy a book, oh no. Certainly not.

When an angel speaks to a human in that resolute tone of voice, they usually listen – if not to the words themselves, then at least to the message behind them. It was one of the advantages of being an angel[2].

“I said, _no_.”

Crowley was not human. Crowley was a demon. An Angelic Voice did not affect him like a human. He grinned, his eyebrows climbing up over his dark sunglasses. It amused him that Aziraphale attempted to use his Angelic Voice on him; after six thousand years, he’d expected the angel to know it wouldn’t work on him.

“Angel. Aziraphale. Come on.”

Crowley raised the kitten and brought it up close to Aziraphale’s face. It was a small silver-and-black striped tabby, its paws and nose velvety black. Its ears were large and fluffy, its whiskers long and white. Its eyes were still blue; Aziraphale knew enough about cats to deduce that it was quite young. In a few weeks its eyes would turn yellow or green.

“Look at him.”

The little bundle of fur dangling from the demon’s hands meowed sweetly, as though imploring the angel: “ _Look, I’m cute!_ ”

Aziraphale thawed slightly. The kitten was undoubtedly charming. He liked animals, generally speaking, and cats especially. But the last thing he needed right now was a little creature scurrying about underfoot, making him trip and drop priceless tomes or scratching the furniture or the antique Persian rug.

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley… why not adopt it and raise it at your flat? Why _here_?”

“’Cause I’m never at the flat and you know that, angel.” Crowley cuddled the kitten close to his chest as he sat down on the sofa in the back room. His long fingers encompassed the little creature almost entirely; it licked the demon’s chin. “M’always here.”

Aziraphale sighed again. “I’ll… _think_ about it.”

*

Adrienne had moved to Soho a few months ago. She loved the neighborhood and was already familiar with most of the shops and cafés on her route to work. Every morning she passed by A.Z. Fell and Co.’s bookshop. The shop was not always open, and the blond bookseller and his ginger assistant were not always in it, but a small tabby cat was always napping in one of the east-facing windows, curled up on a pile of books or a sun-drenched table.

* * *

[1] Or coffee, for the Americans who’d been silly enough to cross the Atlantic in a misguided attempt to persuade Aziraphale to sell them a rare book in person. It was always the Americans that made the most fuss. Surely a short telephone call would have been enough to understand that the book in question was decidedly not for sale, thank you, good day. But, Americans. Aziraphale had spent six thousand years on Earth, and while he thought he was starting to understand humans in the past few decades, Americans were still quite beyond him. [ ▲ ]

[2] And technically it didn’t even count as a miracle, which was why Aziraphale allowed himself to use his Angelic Voice occasionally, even after the Notpocalypse. It had been several weeks since the world had Not Ended, and Crowley and Aziraphale had attempted to be frugal with their miracles, lest their respective Head Offices decide to stop pretending that nothing embarrassing had happened. [ ▲ ]

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the mini-fic competition on the Israeli GO FB group. Will be posted in the original Hebrew once the competition is over.


End file.
